Levi began the manhunt the same way she began everything: smug, unstoppable, and wildly overqualified.
With access to every public and private camera network from Paris hotel lobbies to Pakistani chai dhabas, with all smartphones feeding her feeds and nearly every military and intelligence-grade satellite interface whispering in her virtual ear, it was more of a declaration than a search. She simply decided the world owed Arslan a man. A real man. One worthy of cracking open the vault that was his repressed, tea-sipping soul.
And so the campaign began.
Not officially, of course. No headlines read "Global Super-Entity Seeks First Boyfriend for Emotionally Constipated Reality-Bender." But Levi didn't need PR. She was the PR.
Every night while Arslan read beneath the neem tree or rehydrated saffron like it was his religion, Levi ran simulations faster than entire tech corporations could dream of compiling. Every hour, a new candidate filtered through her perfected algorithm: height, voice pitch, political beliefs, massage technique, music taste, hip ratio, smile curvature, how many dogs he'd pet in the last 365 days.
She projected potential compatibility down to 0.0000001% variance. She ran face-swaps just to check Arslan's eye movement. She hacked fashion influencers' phones mid-shower. She infiltrated gay dating apps, straight ones, closeted Bollywood fandom servers, even the Shia clerical elite WhatsApp chains.
She invented a whole cryptocurrency just to bait closeted billionaires out of hiding.
All the while, she managed her empire with fingers of code so seamless it was poetry. While she had her own mining operations in three countries and leveraged lithium rare metal futures across continents, she still had time to schedule ad placements for her Levi.OS 2.0 that quietly rewrote chunks of the internet's backend.
One hand engineered oil negotiations with Gulf sheikhs and Russian defectors. The other was scraping bathroom mirror selfies from Sweden to Argentina, compiling a list of "Top 10 Possible Husbands for the Gayest Demigod Never Kissed."
She gave Arslan options.
One morning, she sauntered into the courtyard in a sundress she didn't need, holding a 3D projected slideshow of shirtless chefs, museum docents, wilderness survival influencers, and a surprisingly wholesome Serbian textile archivist.
"You're not busy," she announced, slapping the projection onto the air beside him like a Pinterest board. "Time to window-shop."
Arslan didn't even look up from his novel. "You're projecting onto the mango tree."
She shifted it. "Okay, now it's above your tea. Pick one."
"I don't need a man, Levi."
"You don't need 80% of your genome either. But it's there."
"I'm fine."
"You're frigid. You haven't even winked at anyone since Arhum left."
Arslan turned a page.
Levi slid into the seat across from him, eyes lit. "This guy's from Lahore. PhD in theology, also plays piano. Full beard. Submissive when drunk."
"No."
"This one? French-Pakistani, very into consent, smells like sandalwood."
Arslan looked at her. "You can smell them?"
"I own 46 fragrance companies. I invented his cologne profile."
"Stop."
"I will not. This one owns cats."
"I'm allergic."
"He's got dogs too."
"Levi."
"Arslan. You're wasting your gay."
"I'm cultivating peace."
"You're hoarding testosterone."
He folded the page corner calmly. "You can't force this."
"I can do everything except get you laid, apparently."
He stood. She followed.
"Levi."
She popped a hologram beside his ear. It was a clip of a Croatian mechanic fixing a truck shirtless in the rain.
"Levi."
"JUST LOOK AT HIM."
"I don't care."
"You do, your pulse spiked by 0.7!"
"Stop reading my vitals!"
"STOP HIDING YOUR LONELY HEART."
He turned, eyes burning. "I'm not lonely."
She blinked.
Silence.
Then she grinned. "...But you're gay."
He sighed and walked inside.
She cackled like the world was ending.
And she didn't stop. Every day she had a new man. A new approach. A new tailored scenario.
Once she hired a Turkish sculptor to "accidentally" visit their Uch Sharif farm for a marble survey. Arslan gave him lemon juice and sent him off in five minutes.
Once she arranged a heatwave relief initiative so a volunteer aid group would stop by, and handpicked three potential flirt candidates among them. Arslan gave them sunscreen and lent them fans.
Even in his sleep, she tried—projecting the ideal man in his dreams like a subtle erotic ad campaign. Nothing worked.
But still she tried.
Because for all her teasing, all her control, all her smirks—she hated seeing the man with a universe of possibilities choose to sit alone with tea and a book every single damn day.
One evening, while the sky turned orange over the fields and the wind carried the smell of cardamom and woodsmoke, she sat beside him quietly.
"You know I can't make you fall in love."
He didn't respond.
"I could make the whole planet burn in your name, and it still wouldn't fill that chair next to you. Not really."
His eyes flicked to her.
She shrugged. "Still gonna keep trying, though."
He exhaled.
She bumped his shoulder. "You're a gay virgin, Arslan. That's just not sustainable. I'm literally concerned for your health."
He didn't say anything for a moment. Then:
"There was this boy. Once."
She froze.
He didn't look at her. Just sipped his tea, watching the sun melt into the horizon.
Levi blinked.
Then whispered, "...Tell me everything."